


dream of ways (to throw it all away)

by blake0tyler



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, F/F, Unhealthy Relationships, a lot of winter references, like a lot of it, please don't hate me for writing this, somehow still a tiny little bit soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-25 04:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21349963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blake0tyler/pseuds/blake0tyler
Summary: anything beyond the winter is dead.she shows up on your doorstep at seven in the morning on a Saturday, and later, in the future, people are going to ask you about it and you’re going to tell them that you don’t remember.//[ christen & alex — told backwards and forwards and through. ]
Relationships: Alex Morgan/Christen Press, Tobin Heath/Christen Press
Comments: 19
Kudos: 115





	dream of ways (to throw it all away)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:
> 
> something short and sharp and sad. title from John Mayer’s “Gravity”; listen to the Live at the Nokia Theatre version while reading. 
> 
> (I am still working on everything else, I promise—I just had to write this to get it out of my system.)

first, second, last.

//

you call her from the bar. some Palos Verdes place you used to try and get into with your older sister’s id when you were still in high school. it’s 2.37 a.m. and your fingers are shaking, phone battery at 4%.

you call her, back against the cold brick wall, shaking with how much you need to speak to her, shaking, because all this time you’ve been trying to—

trying to—

you’ve blocked her everywhere. you’ve archived her chat, stopped looking at her profile picture, muted the team’s group messages. you’ve cut her out of your sight, out of your head, out of your—

she picks up on the fifth ring and says, “What the fuck do you want?”

you’re so drunk that you can’t speak, can’t remember how to speak, can’t remember anything, nothing beyond last winter, just the snow and the pitch and the way she’d kissed your mouth with cold, cold lips. you can’t remember anything, _won’t _remember anything, not next morning, not exactly, not—

she says, “What the fuck do you want?”

and you don’t speak.

although—

(_hey—it’s me. sorry for calling you this late. I just—fuck, I just miss you, miss you so much—-why—why haven’t you called, you said you were going to—not that it matters, I—I just—can’t we just get together for coffee? just once—just—Alex, just this once, before school starts. it doesn’t have to mean anything—this whole thing with Tobin, it’s only—)_

maybe you say something after all, but she hangs up. or your phone dies. you don’t know which but the line goes dead.

you don’t know which—or which is worse.

//

first, second, last.

you try to think that there are only ever three options.

//

anything beyond the winter is dead.

she shows up on your doorstep at seven in the morning on a Saturday, and later, in the future, people are going to ask you about it and you’re going to tell them that you don’t remember.

don’t remember that overnight, campus has frozen over, ice and snow everywhere. it’s seven in the morning and she’s jumping up and down, dressed too thinly for the weather in her tight adidas sweats and black hoodie. you are going to say you don’t remember her flushed cheeks, the soccer ball at her feet. how you open the door and feel shaky and special and seen. 

(first—)

it’s seven in the morning on a Saturday and Alex is smiling, and you think that this is when you notice her, like, really notice her first.

(this is the rule; there are only three options, and if you can’t be first, you have to be second, and if you can’t be second—)

she says, “You look sleepy, Chris” and then “Want to practice?”

you breathe out into the cold, grab your cleats; you say yes without saying yes.

(everything after counts as last—)

it’s half-dark out, still too early to really see, but the snow makes everything white and pale, like alternative light; like living in a different world for an hour or so.

you will say you don’t remember any of this. not that you can barely get a clear shot on goal because of the snow; not that the ball keeps slipping and your ankles are getting wet; not that Alex drags as much snow out of the way with her gloved fingers as she can, laughs at the effort it takes, then bends her leg back and takes this one perfect shot that feels like slow-motion. 

someone in the future will ask you why you can’t smile when you talk about college soccer. why you no longer speak to anyone from your team. whatever really happened between you and Alex Morgan.

you will think about winter and feel her push you back against the goal post, feel the wet pressure of her gloves against your hips, feel yourself shiver into the kiss—

and you will say you don’t remember any of it.

//

(first—)

backwards beyond winter, then.

she punches a guy in his face for putting his hand on your ass on the subway, and you’ve known her for only two months.

she’s white hot with anger, eyes flashing and fists clenched; her wrist is shaking and two of her knuckles are busted. she pulls you out of the train and sits you down and says “are you okay?”, says “Chris, are you okay?”, and you’ve known her for only two months, but you think that maybe you are really noticing her, now.

(first—)

you grab hold of her bruised hand and you try to say, “It’s not a big deal”, try to say, “This stuff just happens”, and her eyes go serious and she says, “_Because _it happens, it’s a big deal”, and you feel your heart shoot up in your throat, so aware of her, this new girl in your life, who punched a guy in his face for you, and—

backwards.

you see her at try-outs first because she’s in your spot.

a ball comes flying at her through the air and she hits it mid-way, kicks it so hard in the net that everyone goes quiet. she’s a striker, just like you, and she is beautiful, plays beautifully, and she’s in your spot, she could _take _your spot, if she wanted to, and so of course you notice her.

backwards, backwards.

she looks familiar, and you have this thought that suddenly your future is unsure, both of yours, because she is just as good as you and even better, too; she looks like she’ll break your ankles if she’ll have to, and in the future, they will ask you about it, and you’ll say you don’t remember, but of course you do—

of course, you do.

had known her name before she shook your hand.

had watched all of her u-20 games. her u-17s. her u-15s.

someone will ask, and you’ll think—

(first—)

she wears a shirt with Morgan on the back, and you don’t know yet, that you are going to fall in love with her.

(second—)

one time in sophomore year you get a fever and you can’t sleep and Alex stays up with you the whole night.

(last—)

she wraps her arms around Kelley’s waist right in front of you, pushes her body closer, swaying to the beat of the music; you kiss Tobin on team night out and Alex’s wine glass shatters to the floor. you call her from a bar in Palos Verdes and you miss her so much that you’re crying as you try to tell her—

backwards—

and there was never a first time,

you were always noticing her. 

//

winter ends, and summer comes, and you don’t speak, not even once, not until the phone call, and even then you don’t speak either. summer ends and you leave your home feeling like your heart is in a never-ending anxiety attack. you cry hugging your dogs goodbye. you feel sick when you get on the plane. you land, and the east coast is the same, campus is the same, and when you open the door to your apartment, Tobin is waiting.

she’s all warm smiles and shy eyes, looking really good in her dark ripped jeans and grey sweater, and your heart slows at the sight of her, slows when she takes your bag from your shoulder and wraps her arms around you, careful and sweet—knows you’re feeling sensitive.

you can barely whisper a greeting.

she kisses the corner of your mouth, whispers “Wow, I missed you,” and it makes your throat go tight because you’re not a good person, and she loves you, anyway.

“Where’s Kelley?” you mumble, going soft in her arms. “Is she out?”

“Dinner with Sonny and Lindsey,” Tobin says, “She’ll only be back tonight.”

“We have the place to ourselves?”

she nods.

“Good,” you say, pulling on the fabric of her sweater, kissing her again, this time with a bit more pressure behind it.

she hesitates. “Don’t you want to unpack and—”

“No.”

you work your hands under her shirt, feeling the warmth of her skin, the familiar lines of her stomach. her breath hitches when you put your mouth on her neck, when you plead into her skin, “Want you naked. You look so good. Missed you way too much—fuck, I need—” it catches in your throat. “Please, Tobin, I need you to—”

you can’t say it.

you think about Alex hating you, think about Alex hurting you, think about Alex—

you need to be distracted, you need to be touched, you need to be reminded how to be soft.

“Shh,” Tobin whispers. “Okay, baby. Okay.”

she undressed you, kisses your skin all over, despite the fact that you’ve been on a plane and feel like your body is barely yours. she runs her hands up and down your sides, lies you down onto the bed, makes love to you, steady and slow, her body trembling against yours, whispering into your mouth how much she missed you—

it hurts.

it hurts the whole time.

//

winter is all around and there’s snow in her eyelashes and she looks so cold—shaky, but smiling, and you think she might be the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen.

this is the problem.

sure, you’ve had to deal with pretty girls your whole life. you’ve been friends with pretty girls, you’ve had crushes on pretty girls. you’ve looked at pretty girls walking past you on the streets, sitting across from you on public transport, desks away from you in seminars. you’ve kissed pretty girls, you’ve been jealous of pretty girls. you’ve been told you _are _a pretty girl.

and still—

she’s in front of you, and the snow has started to pour from the sky again, and it’s like you can’t breathe.

it’s seven in the morning on a Saturday when she kisses you.

(first—)

and you’re on the soccer pitch, which is the space you share with her, the space you compete for with her, the space you love and hate her in.

you kiss her until both of you are trembling, and then there’s the door of the locker room, and your wet, snowed-on clothes all over the floor, and then the shower, and you kiss her again.

(second—)

neither of you have ever had sex with another girl before; it both feels momentous and small at the same time. all you know is that she keeps smiling at you like you’re gorgeous, that you’re not thinking about anything else, and that you want her to heat you the fuck up. when she slides her fingers inside of you, you gasp—foot slipping on the wet tiled floor. she holds your hips tighter to her own and kisses your mouth. you think that you’ve never been more turned on in your entire life.

you don’t know what you’re doing when you sink to your knees on the floor for her.

all you know is that she’s the only girl on this entire team that could ruin your whole life, your whole future. but she moans when you lick up the inside of her leg, and you think you want her more than you want soccer.

(last.)

//

she’s not at the first practice back.

you want to ask, but Kelley is all over Sonnett, doesn’t pay attention to you at all, and over the summer, you forgot that Kelley actually hates you, too, but now you remember, remember why she does, how you screwed it up and—

anyway.

you make it through the hours by focusing on technique and nothing else.

and after—

after cool down and stripping out of your clothes and the locker room showers that make your whole body hurt with memory, you let Tobin drag you over to her place for take-out and studying.

it’s close to eleven when Tobin asks, “Where was Alex today?”

heat flushes from your chest to your neck to your cheeks. “I don’t know.”

“When’s the last time you talked?”

you swallow hard.

(_hey—it’s me. sorry for calling you this late. I just—fuck, I just miss you, miss you so much—Alex, I’m sorry. I screwed it all up. this whole thing with Tobin, I swear, it’s just—no, please. you don’t understand, I—remember winter? can’t you—can’t we talk—can’t we—)_

“Before the summer.”

Tobin’s expression changes a bit.

“Chris,” she says. “Chris, I’m sure it will be fine… The drafting—I’m sure, both of you will be—”

“She got called up,” you say. “She got called up months ago.”

(first, second, last.)

before she can say anything else, you push her onto her back and straddle her hips.

there’s something in the way her eyes go wide when you pull your shirt over your head, just like that. something like power in the way you can press your hips down and make her groan, whenever, however you want to.

you know she thinks you’re hot.

you’ll let her fuck you if it means she’ll shut up about this.

//

of course, when you see Alex, finally, she is dressed for the gym. neon pink shorts. a tight black tank top that you’ve taken off of her multiple times—the sides open to reveal the perfect cut of her sports bra. her hair is pulled back tightly, shoulders showing tan lines, her legs bare and smooth, and—

feels like a stab to the chest.

you’re in a store just north of campus, buying things like toothpaste and washcloths, things for breakfast, things to make your room feel a little nicer. she is in the fruit and vegetable section when you catch sight of her. there’s a second where you could have left, but then Alex is turning, and of course, of course—

her eyes go dark.

you haven’t been looked at like this in months.

(can’t believe it’s been months, can’t believe the last time you saw each other you fought so hard that you can still feel the sting of Alex’s words as they cut into you, the way she’d lashed out at you, how she’d looked like you’d broken every single bone in her body—)

“You’re back.”

you feel breathless. “Yes.”

she scowls. “Where is your girlfriend?”

you swallow hard, try to breathe, try to calm your body. “She’s—” try again. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

her mouth is a tight line. “Could have fooled me.”

you don’t want to. you don’t want to, but she’s the one who holds the power now, and you’ve—

you’ve never been good at that.

so you say, “How was camp? Are you too good to practice with us now?”

the words land harder than you intend. nothing gives it away—she’s always been excellent at keeping her facial expressions in check. but you’ve been looking at her for months, years, and you can see the drop in her shoulders, the way her exhale is a little sharp, how something near her eyes contracts and goes tense and _hurt_.

but you’re not scared to hurt her.

you might be the only person on this whole campus who isn’t scared of her—who isn’t afraid to get scorched by the fire, to come out burning on the other side.

you have always been a little cold and you don’t mind the heat.

but Alex says, “How much do you miss me?”

and somehow she is just as good at hurting you back.

//

you’re on your knees on the bed, legs spread wide, feeling your whole body pulse with heat as she fucks her fingers into you from behind. one hand between your legs, the other playing with your nipples; her mouth ghosting hot over the line of your neck. you work your hips back harder, feel yourself go tight around her fingers, feel the way you’re shaking, and she says, “God, baby, you feel so good—”

you moan at her voice, all roughed up and low. it makes you bite down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from making any more sounds, but she curls her fingers _just right_, and you breathe out, “Fuck, Alex, _fuck_—”

Tobin stops.

your whole body goes tense.

she’s silent.

everything is silent.

she moves back.

“W-what did you say?”

there’s a tightness in your lungs, and you don’t want to look at her, can’t feel anything but this ice cold pain that spreads from your neck to your stomach to your legs.

_fuck._

“Tobin, I—”

she slides off the bed. “It sounded like…” she says, her voice all hurt. “It sounded like you were saying—”

you turn, naked and shaking, and suddenly it’s like your tears are in your throat, like you won’t be able to speak without crying.

she looks like you slapped her; bottom lip trembling, her hands shaking; she’s naked except for her shorts and you can’t bear to look at her—can’t bear to have her look at you like you’re still worth looking at, despite the fact that her whole face is a mess of hurt and confusion and pain.

“I didn’t—” you mumble. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—it just—”

just like that, Tobin’s eyes flash with anger. “She doesn’t care about you. She—she—” she chokes on her own voice. “She doesn’t give a fuck about you, and still you—” it breaks.

“Baby—”

“_No_,” she bites out, harsh and sudden. “You don’t get to—not when—”

she backs up, moves closer to the door. everything inside of you panics at once. you’re already off the bed, trying to get closer, trying to grab her hand. she backs up further. your legs are shaky and you’re still wet—and it’s the fucking _worst_.

“She’s nothing to me,” you rush out. “Tobin, please—” you’ve never heard your own voice like this, so desperate. “She’s leaving,” you breathe out. “She’s leaving to play for the national team and she’s never coming back and she’s—” 

Tobin’s eyes are like fire.

she makes a sound that causes your whole body to jerk away from her, and then she says, “Are you even hearing yourself?”

“Tobin—”

“Do you have any idea what you look like when you talk about her?”

it cuts right into you.

you’re crying before you know that you’re crying.

she grabs her shirt off the floor, harshly swipes at her eyes, and then says, “I love you, you know?” her voice catches. “Can you even feel it? Can you even feel that I—”

she cuts herself off.

she leaves you naked on the bed and you are good at losing, it turns out.

(last.)

//

it’s a rule.

winter follows summer, and you don’t speak to anyone anymore.

(if you can’t be first, you don’t deserve to be second, and you’ll end up being last.)

//

“That was the first time I’ve ever played in the snow.”

she laughs. “You’re such a California girl.”

you kiss her mouth, whisper softly, “You’re a California girl, too.”

Alex nods into your shoulder. “But we went skiing, though. I played in snow before.”

she brushes her fingers over your hip, presses her lips under your jaw. it’s after the field and after the locker room and after she cancels breakfast with Kelley to be in bed with you, so this is where you are.

you’re in her bed and she loves you, you think.

she could love you.

“Chris?” she says.

“Hm?”

“You’re good.” she breathes the words into your skin. “So good.”

you don’t know what she means. whether she means playing in the snow or soccer in general or maybe something even bigger.

you want to tell her that you are never going to recover from this.

that you’re never going to meet anyone who will do to you what she does—whether good or bad.

that you’re in love with her. that she is the one person who has the potential to take everything you’ve ever worked for you from you in a heartbeat, and that maybe you’d let her.

let her have the rosters and the games and all the shots on goal.

every single thing she wants.

you’re on your stomach and she slides her fingers back between your legs.

“So good,” she whispers as you moan. “You’re the best I know.”

you let her play with you, close your eyes at how fucking good it feels.

every single thing she wants you’ll give her.

//

(first—)

you wake up when everything is still dark.

you only got about four hours of sleep; Kelley and the rest of the girls were having game night, to celebrate the end of exams, to celebrate the beginning of break. you stayed in your room and didn’t speak to anyone, because the only person you’d want to speak to hates you now, and Tobin deserves a break from you, you think.

you wake up and winter has come again; snow has fallen overnight.

//

(second—)

she opens the door and says, “No.”

but you say, “Alex, wait.”

//

(last—)

she doesn’t want to play.

she ignores the snow, ignores the soccer ball. she says, “What the fuck do you want?”

you try to tell her you miss her.

nothing comes out.

//

(last—)

you press her up against the door of her bedroom, fingers hard on her hips, your mouth trying to stop her from breathing, maybe.

“I hate you,” she says.

she yanks your sweater from your body, unhooks your bra faster than you could have done it yourself. she drags her teeth over your pulse, tries to get her hand down your sweatpants. she fingers you over your underwear—quick and a little too hard.

it makes you really wet.

your hips buck forward and you choke out, “Say it again.”

“Say what?” Alex says.

“That you hate me.”

something flashes in her eyes.

winter all around you.

her fingers slide between your thighs, into your panties, hot and slippery. “I hate you,” she says. “I hate you. I hate you.” her voice catches at the back of her throat, goes soft when she adds, “I hate you so much that I can’t feel anything else.”

//

(last—)

this will never happen again.

you know it when you kiss her and Alex’s whole body shudders in response. she’s got tears in her eyes as you slide your fingers into her.

she comes the way you want her to—with equal parts pleasure and hurt on her face.

you never claimed you were a good person.

//

(first, second, last.)

//

“What are you thinking?” she says.

you smile. “National team.”

Alex grins. “You know, Press, I think I really like you.”

it rushes heat throughout your whole body. it’s only the first month and you barely made it through try-outs. but you did. you made it through try-outs and now you get to play college soccer for four years, and the future is wide open.

the pitch has gone dark; it’s way after training hours already, and up north here, winter comes fast.

“You cold?” Alex says.

you nod.

she grins. “Just wait until it starts to snow—that’s when it really gets cold.”

her eyes are bright and beautiful. you’re the last two people here. maybe you will still take some more shots on goal, just the two of you. just to practice.

“I’ve never seen it,” you say.

“What?” Alex says, her smile on you and on you only.

you think you really like her, too.

“Snow.”

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:
> 
> There’s this one lyric from Lana del Rey’s “Cinnamon Girl” that I couldn’t get out of my head the whole time I was writing this:
> 
> you try to push me out / but I just find my way back in / violet, blue, green red / to keep me out—I win. 
> 
> Let me know what you thought in the comments.


End file.
